


A Freelancer Musical

by mumblybee



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-09
Updated: 2012-06-09
Packaged: 2017-11-07 08:54:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/429191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mumblybee/pseuds/mumblybee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wash blinked. And then he heard it –  it was faint at first but then there was a sudden outpouring of…strangely peppy music? He turned and looked in confusion at the overhead intercom speakers. “What –?”</p><p> A clink of ceramic hitting the countertop interrupted him, and then an event that was surely one of the signs of the Apocalypse occurred.</p><p> South started to sing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Freelancer Musical

**Author's Note:**

> This was a collaboration with Shaherazade-21c over on tumblr! She wrote the last three songs and helped enormously with the…er, what passes for a plot in this thing.

            Wash woke up a bit later than usual – seven-forty-five rather than five-fifteen. Normally this would have horrified him, but today the Director was off-ship on business and so normal operations were temporarily delayed.

            In other words, they had the day _off._

            This did not particularly please Wash; he preferred action and structure to a day of aimlessly wandering the ship in search of something useful to do. He rolled over in bed and sighed, looking for Maine, but his bunk was already empty. Wash frowned a little – usually Maine took any opportunity to sleep in. He sighed and sat up. Better get out there, grab a cup of coffee, and see how badly everyone had messed up the library in the common room.

*

            When he got to the coffee room, South and CT were standing there, each leaning against the counter and looking at full coffee mugs with equal distaste.

            “Uh, morning,” said Wash.

             “Hey,” said CT. South just gave him a nod, which was what passed for friendly in her case.

            Wash moved past them to fill a mug of his own, loading it up with cream and sugar before he dared to take a sip. “What’re you guys up to?” he asked after an awkward pause.

            “Oh, you know,” said South, sounding bored. “Whatever.”

            “Just making coffee,” CT sighed.

            Wash blinked. And then he heard it –  it was faint at first but then there was a sudden outpouring of…strangely peppy music? He turned and looked in confusion at the overhead intercom speakers. “What –?”

            A clink of ceramic hitting the countertop interrupted him, and then an event that was surely one of the signs of the Apocalypse occurred.

            South started to sing.

            “ _My coffee’s bitter_ ,” she sang, matching the pace of the music coming from the speakers.

            Wash stared, horrified, as CT joined in.

            _“My coffee’s worse!”_

            The two of them faced each other and declared, _“Drinking this shit actually hurts!”_

            South began to pace in the small quarters as she went on, _“Why can’t you get a good cup of coffee in space?”_

            CT circled in the opposite direction, adding, _“Coffee that isn’t out to kill the human race?”_

Wash stood helplessly in the middle of their little choreography, watching as they met and clinked their mugs together. The music swelled as they belted out, _“I’m not asking for anything obscene! All I need is my damn caffeine!”_

            “And for the love of god,” South said, looking to the side as though to an imaginary audience, “can we _please_ get some more sugar?”

            There was a pause in the music and Wash began to wonder if everything was safe again. CT and South held their positions, CT watching him out of the corner of her eye. He opened his mouth but nothing came out, which was just as well because suddenly the music started up again and York came skidding into the room.

            “Did you ladies just say you needed some _sugar?_ ” he said, grinning widely and presenting a basket of sugar packets.

            “Finally,” said South, rolling her eyes, and she took the basket from York, moving past a somewhat-traumatized Wash in order to place it on the counter. The music swelled again and York, CT, and South sang as one, slowly raising their hands toward the ceiling.

_“Mornings are rough when you’ve got no sunrise_

_And every other day some other dude dies_

_Defending the freedom of humanityyy –_

_So we’re asking, please_

_On hands and knees_

_Buy us a better brand of coffeeeee!”_

They stood together for a moment, hands raised, and then the music abruptly stopped and they all relaxed into their usual positions. Connie sipped her coffee with shoulders hunched, South scowled at no one in particular, and York came over and clapped Wash on the back.

            “Hey man, how’s it goin’?”

            Wash stared at him, and then replied, “Wh-what.”

            York’s brow furrowed. “Something wrong?”

            “What,” repeated Wash. “Wh-what was…that. What just _happened?_ ”

            “Uhh,” York said, frowning. “I just asked how you were?”

            “No!” Wash whirled around, pointing at CT. “You saw it! You saw what happened! You – you were –”

            He faltered, realizing that CT was wearing an utterly unamused expression. “I was _what_ , Wash?”

            “Singing?” Wash said, his voice dipping uncertainly.

            South burst out laughing and York grinned. “Singing?” repeated CT in a cold voice. “Why the hell would I be singing, Wash? Who do you think you’re talking to? Is this some kind of joke?”

            Wash gaped at her. “No, no, it happened, it – South, tell them, it –”

            “Wash, listen,” said South in a voice one might use for a very small, very stupid child, “you’ve had some hard missions these past weeks. Maybe you need to get some more rest.”

            “No, wait,” said Wash, looking wildly around for someone to believe him.

            But they all just looked back with varying levels of pity. York patted him on the shoulder and said, “Drink your coffee, man. You’ll feel better.”

            And they cleared out of the room, leaving Wash alone to sip forlornly at his horrible coffee.

*

            Everything went more or less typically from there. Wash spent his morning reading and rereading his field manual on interpersonal communication (just in case he’d missed something about musical communication). York wandered by every now and then, usually following Carolina and rambling to her, as per his custom whenever they both had free time. South disappeared off somewhere. North and Maine came by to play video games for a while, CT read a book entitled _Greatest Hoaxes of the Century_ , and from the sounds coming from the coffee room, Wyoming appeared to be making the world’s most meticulous cup of tea.

            Maybe he _had_ just been overtired, Wash decided as he walked to the mess hall around noon, following York (who was, predictably, following Carolina). It wasn’t like him to sleep in so late, and it had been a rough couple of weeks, mission-wise. Maybe he’d just zoned out.

            The more he thought about it, the more sense it made. After all, CT and South singing? There was just no way. It was entirely beyond the realm of possibility. Clearly he had just been tired. That was all. He’d just needed his coffee, and now…everything would be fine.

            Wash retrieved a decent-looking sandwich and sat down at a table with the rest of the team. North and South were on opposite sides, which was a little odd for them, but not all that worrying. CT sat down beside him and smiled when he glanced her way, which was also odd for her, but at the moment Wash was determined not to make a big deal out of anything ever again. He didn’t need anybody questioning his sanity twice in one day.

            He sighed contentedly at the comforting, totally normal, non-musical background chatter that filled the table, and started to take a bite of sandwich.

            “South,” said North suddenly, a lot louder than was necessary. “You wanna pass the salt?”

            South glared at him. “It’s not that far away,” she replied in a similar sort of stage-voice that made Wash begin to worry just a bit. “Just get it yourself.”

            North frowned and the table quieted a little as he demanded, “Why do you always have to be like this?”

            South sat up straight and cocked her head defiantly. “Like what?”

            And then.

            Oh god. Oh no. Wash put his sandwich down slowly.

            The music had begun.

            It was slower this time, and it suited North as he stood dramatically from the table and sang, _“Selfish and rude, never grateful to me for a minute!”_

            South stood too, quicker and angrier. _“Maybe ‘cause my life’s better without you in it!”_

            North, who had been walking down the length of the table, whirled on her now. _“How could you say that?”_

            South folded her arms. _“How could I not? Being a twin isn’t all that I’ve got!”_ There was a slight pause in the music before it picked up.

            _“In everything I do,”_ South and North sang at once, pacing up and down opposite sides of the table while everyone kept on blithely eating and Wash tried desperately not to hyperventilate.

            _“I take care of you,”_ North finished while at the same time South sang, _“I get compared to you!”_

            _“Can’t you see this’ll end in disaster?”_ North pleaded.

            _“Gotta be stronger, gotta be faster,”_ South replied.

_“Don’t you see this is only because I care?”_

_“I’m gonna break away one day, I swear.”_

_“We’re not always going to be together,”_ sang North.

            _“I can be braver, I can be better,”_ South answered. And then together she and North sang,

_“One day we’ll no longer be a pair_

_And I just want you to be prepared.”_

            The two of them started to bicker in actual non-singing voices now and Wash hoped desperately that the music would end so that he could go ahead and have a heart attack or something.

            Fortunately, it did stop.

            Unfortunately, that was when Maine walked in with the electric guitar. To Wash’s great distress, it had flames on it.

            “Why,” said Wash. CT looked at him quizzically and he stared at her. “Why is this _happening_ ,” he repeated in his most desolate voice.

            “Are you feeling well?” CT asked, frowning. North and South’s bickering got louder and louder until they were shouting so loud that even if Wash could’ve answered her, she wouldn’t have been heard. He inched very slowly toward the edge of the bench, intending to escape to his room, when suddenly there was a huge CRASH.

            Carolina was standing, and if the two halves of plastic on the ground were any indication, she had just slammed her lunch tray onto the floor. “WILL. YOU. SHUT. UP,” she practically roared, and the entire mess hall fell silent.

            North and South looked guiltily at their feet. Maine walked over to a corner and sat down with his flaming electric guitar, looking oddly forlorn. Wash froze in his seat, not daring to move a muscle now.

            His eyes followed Carolina as she strode over to North and South, grabbed them each by the shirt collar, and snarled, “ENOUGH. I’m sick of your bullshit! I’m sick of babysitting all of you! Where the hell do you think you are? High school? I’ve got news for you idiots! WE ARE IN THE ARMY.”

            Hope fluttered in Wash’s chest. Maybe Carolina would fix this. _Of course_ she was going to fix it; she was the leader after all. She had to make everything okay. It was in the job description.

            Carolina let go of the twins, who sat sulkily back down, and stomped back to the head of the table to face them all. Wash waited to hear the lecture that would stop the madness.

            Instead, he heard drum beats. And then Maine’s guitar, picking up a country rock-esque melody.

              _“I’ve got all I ever wanted, and for what?”_ Carolina sang, staring them all down. (Wash couldn’t even be surprised anymore, although he was slightly frightened by the fact that even her singing voice was intimidating.) _“So I can listen to you all gripe and fuss?”_

            “No,” muttered North and South meekly.

            “That’s right,” she nodded, and picked the song up again.

            _“Well, you better listen up and you better listen good_

_When I signed up for number one –”_

            “Oh, so you sign up for that?” CT called, and Carolina fixed her with a piercing glare.

            _“When I signed up for number one,”_ she went on, _“They never told me you’re never alone!”_

            She leapt onto an unoccupied table, and Wash watched in mingled shock and wonder as she began some sort of…tap…step…routine? He had no idea what she was doing; he just knew that she was kicking trays off the table with the same kind of rhythm and grace that she used to kick insurrectionists in the face.

            _“No, the number one is never alone_

_All the other numbers follow close behind_

_And **I** have to support them all_

_Because, because, beccaauuuse –_

_**I’m** number one.”_

            Wash saw CT roll her eyes. Carolina stopped in the middle of the table, hands on her hips. “And _that’s_ a kick in the ass, because let me tell you…”

            She leapt off of the table again and took to the floor.

            _“They never tell you when you’re number one_

_That you can’t stand alone.”_

            “Is that so bad?” quipped York. Carolina ignored him.

            _“When you sign up for number one_

_You also sign up for the numbers that follow_

_And I, I didn’t know_

_I didn’t know_

_That a number that’s never alone could be…”_

            Carolina paused, and the music slowed. _“…So alooooone,”_ she finished, stretching out the last word to match the melody. Wash almost expected clapping, but she just sat back down as if nothing had happened. That seemed to be the trend today.

            It was quiet for about thirty seconds before _Wyoming_ of all people mumbled, “Bloody philistines…”

            Wash looked hopefully toward him. “You heard it too?” he asked, unable to keep the desperation from his voice.

            But Wyoming ignored him, choosing instead to…goddamnit…sing.

            _“What do **you** know of suffering?_

_What do **you** know of pain?_

_What do **you** know of the world, my ‘dears’?_

_Not a whit, not a bloody thing!”_

            God, he should’ve seen this coming. Wash resisted the urge to drop his head to the table and give up on life.

            “Jeez, Wyoming,” said South. “Something bothering you, maybe?”

            Wyoming glowered at her through his monocle.

            _“Deaf, dumb and blind, you bloody philistines!_

_You can’t fathom what it’s like to be me!_

_I was born to intelligence, born to class_

_While you were barely born to be free!”_

            “Whoa man,” said York between handfuls of french fries. “Seems a little harsh.”

            Wyoming scoffed.

            _“Mongrel Americans, stuck in your ignorance_

_I can barely stand it!_

_I’m alone, on my own, the only member of the gentry!”_

            He stood up, holding out an empty mug, and called, “Can I get a decent blasted cup of Earl Grey?! For God’s sakes . . .”

            “Earl what?” North asked York, who shrugged and kept on eating.

            Wyoming sighed and sank back down into his seat.

            _“No . . . of course you don’t know . . ._

_What it’s like to be me._

_When you can’t even brew a cup of decent tea!”_

            “But I don’t even like tea,” York said, frowning. That appeared to be the last straw. Wyoming threw up his hands and stomped off out of the mess hall.

            York shrugged again, which was his reaction to most types of adversity, and reached over to steal the rest of Wyoming’s abandoned fries.

 

*

            Wash left the mess hall as soon as he was absolutely certain that no one was going to explain the…the _songs_. He holed himself up in his room where it was safe. He would just stay here, he reasoned. He would just stay _right here_ on _this spot_ on his bed reading _this_ field manual and not talking to anyone for the rest of the day, and then tomorrow the Director would be back and everything would be normal.

            Everything _had_ to be normal. Or…or…

            Well. He wasn’t really sure. But he didn’t want to find out.

            It was past time for dinner when York showed up in the doorway (without knocking, as usual). “Hey man, how –” he started.

            “No singing,” Wash interrupted, tensing and clutching his field manual protectively.

            “What?” said York, coming over and flopping on the bed. Without asking. As usual.

            “No music,” Wash went on, shifting away from York. “No dancing. And most of all _no singing_.”

            York sat up, blinked at him uncomprehendingly for a moment, then just shrugged and smiled. “Sure, man, whatever you say. You feeling all right?”

            “Yes,” said Wash through grit teeth, his grip on the manual tightening. “ _I’m_ fine. Why does everyone keep acting like there’s something wrong with _me?_ ”

             York looked mildly surprised. “Hey, take it easy,” he said. “Look, you didn’t show up for dinner tonight. And you’ve been acting weird all day. We’ve got reason to be kinda worried.”

            “I guess you’re right,” Wash muttered.

            “That’s the spirit,” York said cheerfully. He stood up. “C’mon, we’re doing movie night in the common room. You should come. It’ll make you feel better.”

            Wash looked at him for a moment, at the open concern on his face, and sighed. “Fine,” he said, and set down the field manual. “But _no_. _singing_.”

            “Right. Totally. Whatever you say,” York repeated, and Wash followed him reluctantly out to the common room.

*

            They were watching _Captain America_. Again. Big surprise there. But at least that was familiar, and if Wash wasn’t mistaken there was very little if any singing in that movie. In fact, it was sort of a nice way to end a horrible, confusing, twisted mess of a day – just watching some good old heroes beat up some nasty old villains. Wash sighed and settled into the couch a little more. CT was sitting beside him, with North, South, Maine, and Wyoming on the other side of the (pretty enormous) couch.

            York and Carolina were settled on some pillows in front of the screen. Occasionally York would whisper or mumble something at Carolina, and she’d respond mostly with glares and elbows to the ribs. It wasn’t really disruptive. About halfway into the movie, however, Carolina got louder.

            “York ,will you cut it out,” she snapped. Wash glanced over, ready to ignore the disruption or shush them at worst – but then the movie’s audio cut out. And then everybody started humming. And music poured down from the overhead speakers.

            _“You know you love it,”_ sang York in a low, over-the-top smoky voice.

            Wash almost screamed. Almost. Instead his mind decided that the best course of action here was to decide none of this was really happening. It was all a dream. Yes.

            Carolina stood, folding her arms. “If I loved it I wouldn’t feel like smacking you upside the head,” she growled.

            _“You know you want it,”_ York tried, following her as she walked to the edge of their little circle.

            “Pushing your luck there, York,” she said, tossing her hair back and starting to walk away.

            _“Come on, Carolina! Have fun, Carolina!”_ York sang, and stepped out in front of her. “Why not play along?” He was doing that ridiculous sort of suggestive grin that made Wash feel embarrassed to be in the same room as him.

            _“Maybe I don’t like the game,”_ Carolina sang back, sidestepping him.

            “This is so corny. This is so stupid,” Wash mumbled, but he was drowned out by the rest of the Freelancers singing, _“Oooh, play the game!”_

            “I got all kinds of games,” York said. “Just as an aside.”

            Carolina rolled her eyes. “York.”

            _“Come on, Carolina! Have fun, Carolina! Don’t you wanna play?”_ the chorus sang.

            “Oh my god why,” Wash and Carolina both muttered in unison.

            _“Loosen up, get a little wild, maybe a little bit…loud?”_ York suggested, raising his eyebrows.

            Wash looked from Carolina’s clenched fists to York’s face and estimated that York had about three minutes tops to rectify this before his nose was going to be broken.

            _“’Cause let me tell ya, baby,”_ York went on heedlessly, looking at no one but Carolina, despite the fact that there was a chorus of humming and doo-wopping surrounding Wash.

            “Don’t call me that,” Carolina snapped.

            York just smiled. _“All I want is for you to sing along.”_

“Fine,” she snapped, and jabbed a finger at his chest. _“You may have chosen the game, ‘baby’, but I wrote the rules. So if you want to play –”_

            _“I’ll play it your way,”_ York finished smoothly, reaching up to take her hand and pry it away from its dangerously-close-to-his-throat location. _“And just let me say, I wouldn’t have it any other way…”_

            Wash covered his eyes and groaned in dismay as York and Carolina sang together.

            _“It takes two_

_To play this game_

_To play it right, I need you by my side._

_Why don’t you come along?_

_Don’t keep me waaiiting—”_

            “STOP!” Wash interrupted finally, rocketing to his feet. A day’s worth of anxiety and confusion came barreling from his mouth in the form of crazed yelling. “OH MY GOD STOP. STOP. PLEASE. WHY. WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS TO ME.”

            And just like that the music stopped abruptly. York and Carolina stepped away from one another as the rest of the Freelancers scrambled to their feet as though suddenly summoned.

            “All right, people, that’s a wrap!” said York cheerfully as everybody started chattering and Wash just stood there, utterly lost. “Took him twelve and a half hours to crack. CT, you called it. You’re the winner.”

            “Cool,” said CT, nodding. She tossed Wash a vaguely guilty glance. “Sorry.”

            “What. Is. Happening,” Wash demanded.

            “I said it would be thirteen hours,” said Wyoming. “Surely that qualifies me over Connecticut?”

            “Nope, sorry pal,” York said. “CT’s bet was twelve-point-five exactly.”

            “Philistines,” Wyoming muttered, and walked away.

            “Someone explain the world to me,” Wash said flatly. “I don’t understand the world.”

            York made his way over to Wash and put a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Hey man. I’m sure you’re a little confused about all this, right? Right. So here’s the thing. We decided to put on a musical today and not tell you about it. Got FILSS doing the music and everything. And also we took bets on how long it’d take you to crack. That’s cool, right?”

            Wash stared at him, open-mouthed.

            “Okay, I gotta go now,” York said quickly, and made a beeline for the hallway with Carolina on his tail.

            “We did notagree on that last number!” Wash heard her calling as she gave chase.

            “Hey, hey, don’t hurt me!” came York’s muffled shout from around the corner. “Don’t – aaaauughh!”

            Wash stood staring blankly at the wall for a few seconds, trying to process how exactly his life had come to this. CT came over and rested her hand tentatively on his arm.

            “Are you okay?” she asked.

            “What did you win?” Wash replied sullenly, and then added for good measure, “…traitor.”

            CT glowered at him. “First of all, I’m not a traitor, and secondly, what I won is none of your business,” she snapped, and marched off.

            “Anybody still wanna watch the movie?” North called.

            “No,” said South and Maine, the only other people remaining.

            Wash just sat wearily back down on the couch. “I don’t care,” he said. “I…I’m done. With caring. I’m done with caring forever.”

            “Okay,” said North brightly, and he turned the movie back on.

*

            Thankfully, the rest of Wash’s week went by with total normalcy – except for one thing. Somehow he kept ending up with CT as a sparring partner.

            “Did you do this?” he asked York suspiciously on the fourth day in a row that it occurred.

            York glanced at the training line up. “Nooo,” he said, then blinked. “Uh, I mean…do what?”

            “ _York._ ”

            “Uhh, I gotta go man. Because of…all of the…uh, the reasons that I have to – yeah, bye.” And just like that he was gone, a gold-armored blur in the distance.

            Well, thought Wash as he watched CT walk onto the training floor. At least _something_ good had come out of all this.

 


End file.
